


With Benefits

by bunkering



Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-02 20:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunkering/pseuds/bunkering
Summary: A collection of drabbles wherein Poppy and Branch are friends with benefits. Rating will vary from drabble to drabble; however, a blanket Mature rating applies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ( This story was previously deleted due to a string of personal shenanigans - but it's back! I apologize if my sudden disappearance left anyone upset, so please accept my return and enjoy this slightly edited version of the original! )
> 
> This chapter is rated PG-13 (with a pinch of sauciness).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( This story was previously deleted due to a string of personal shenanigans - but it's back! I apologize if my sudden disappearance left anyone upset, so please accept my return and enjoy this slightly edited version of the original! )
> 
> This chapter is rated PG-13 (with a pinch of sauciness).

When Poppy finally tells him, she notices how swiftly his voice melts from one of shock to displeasure. Shamelessly, she wonders if it will become a catalyst to their mired relationship.

“Wait, wait,” says Branch, holding up both hands to halt their conversation, and Poppy stills – waiting. She feels a knot take up residence in her chest, sudden and warm, but is quickly brought back to humiliation when Branch scrunches up his nose. “Your dad actually gave you _pictures_?”

“Yes!” Poppy declares with concerted frustration and pulls a small handful of photographs from her hair. She grumbles and fidgets, theatrically throws herself back onto the downiness of her couch, next to Branch seated beside her. She feels it necessary to offer reassurance. “He’s not forcing me to actually do anything. He’s just, I don’t know, excited by the idea. He says his parents did the same for him.”

Branch doesn’t speak, but clicks his tongue to convey his irritation. She can feel his body shift awkwardly when he reaches out to take the photographs from her hand.

“So, what?” Branch almost growls, flipping through the portraits in a way that makes Poppy wonder if they’re burning his skin. “Does he plan on reminding you that you’re an unmarried queen until you decide to hook up with one of these losers just to shut him up?”

Poppy sighs and sinks further into recumbence. For a moment she settles her gaze on Branch’s hands and watches as he continues his inspection of the photographs, desperately wishing she could hear what his mind was telling him. Because while Poppy is aware that her father’s intentions had been well-meant when he’d visited her that morning to deliver portraits of several male Troll “suitors” for her perusal, she knows it’ll take more to convince Branch. The one Troll who, for all intents and purposes, _should be_ her suitor but _isn’t_. Instead they’re friends skirting on the edge of something more, exchanging intimacies privately but never consummating publicly, so close at times that the lines begin to blur.

It’s not a relationship to which Poppy is resistant, nor is such an arrangement atypical of Trollkind where hedonism makes up the fabric woven throughout their genetics. More and more Trolls turn away from the stricter expectations of monogamy in favor of casual flings, allowing passion to be shared among one another and ever available. Still, too often Poppy finds that she must re-convince herself that she doesn’t want more with Branch. He isn’t like most Trolls, so perhaps that’s why she feels differently. For the first time, Poppy doesn't want to share something.

But this is how Branch wants it—to take things slow even when they love each other, to call each other friends despite how they treat each other when alone. Poppy chalks it up to Branch being afraid of interpersonal commitment and, well, he hadn’t disagreed when she argued the same following a rather sensual kissing session one night.

“I’m not going to do anything, Branch.” She rolls her eyes. “Like I said, dad is only looking forward to seeing me married one day and, um,” she pauses, voice lilting and cheeks warming, “continuing the royal family.”

“Wh—”

“But that’s only because he was already married at my age!” Poppy interjects as fast as she can, jolting back to a sitting position. She smiles at Branch then, regaining some composure and joyful confidence. “He’s wanting to put the idea in my head, that’s all. He’s not actually expecting me to get back to him on this.”

“Hm, okay.” Branch looks her over, before dangling one of the portraits between his thumb and forefinger derisively. A bright orange Troll with tall, green hair. “That’s good, because I don’t think you’d look good with a carrot.”

“That’s—” Poppy is unable to suppress a giggle, her shoulder nudging Branch gingerly. “Who would I look good with, then? Hm, Mr. Matchmaker?”

“Not him,” he reiterates, then moves onto the next picture, “or this guy.”

“Branch,” says Poppy, giggling again. She plucks the photographs from his hands and starts to look through them again for herself. “They can’t all be that bad. You don’t even know their personalities.”

“I have a good guess,” Branch says with a scoff, tapping a finger against the hug time bracelet wrapped delicately around Poppy’s wrist. “They probably love singing, hugging, dancing, and going along with whatever their queen wants them to do.”

“At least somebody wants to,” she quips, lips curved in a smile and eyes twinkling with flirtation, returning his touch by poking at his naked wrist. “I bet they even enjoy glitter.”

Branch turns his head and grimaces, and Poppy catches a glimpse of his tongue. She is reminded of two nights ago—the last time that tongue was in her mouth—and of how hot and wet it felt, the way it slid against her own with cautious eagerness. She has to shake away the thoughts before they escalate.

“It’s not like I hate all of those things,” says Branch under his breath, the curiousness of his statement helping to distract Poppy a little further. He can see the question hanging in her eyes when he turns his face back to hers, sighs begrudgingly and opens his arms to her. “I enjoy most of them.”

Immediately, Poppy leans close to him, nestling between his arms for an embrace and no doubt looking the most pleased she’s ever been. She hums when she feels him envelope her at the shoulders, her spirits alight with ardor and pride. It’s amazing how much progression Branch has and continues to make, she thinks, and how happy she is to be the one he wants to share it with first and foremost. It helps to soothe the small itch of frustration concerning the nature of their relationship, if only slightly.

All good things come to those who wait, after all, and Poppy realizes that Branch needs to move at his own pace after the life he’s endured. Because for as long as she’s known him, Branch has been exceptionally stubborn—but, then again, so was she! Poppy had lost count of the number of events she'd invited Branch to over the years regardless of how much he'd groaned, and she wasn’t about to lose hold of her determination now. Not with something like this. If a romantic future lay somewhere ahead of them, it would undoubtedly come.

For now, both ravenous and affectionate, and as a Troll known for actively recognizing her wants, Poppy is happy to oblige Branch at every kiss and caress, to enjoy him as he is and all that he’s willing to offer, no strings attached.

“By the way,” Poppy breathes against his ear, adoring the way it twitches in tandem with the inquisitive hum he gives. “I prefer a Troll with dulled colors.”

Branch snorts, half-amused, at the fond reference she makes to his colors, but she does so for good reason. It’s something she’s personally seen Branch grapple for confidence over, ever since he ultimately found it difficult to retain the original and restored vibrancy; she knows his esteem is affected more than he allows to show or will ever admit. Not that it matters to Poppy. Whatever color or shade he turns, by the month or day, it will be her favorite.

“Yeah, well,” says Branch, placing what has to be the lightest of kisses on her cheek, “I might not actually mind going along with whatever the queen wants.”

“Really?” Poppy pulls back to look at Branch properly, her eyes dilating.

“Poppy,” Branch deadpans, “I was trying to do a little thing called ‘set the mood’. You’re kind of ruining it.”

“Oh?” Poppy leans away, taking delight in how Branch seems to want to follow after her with his hands. She simpers at him, finds the nearly forgotten photographs and holds them up again with a small wiggle. “Because for a second there I thought maybe you were trying to squash the competition.”

“The fact you’re implying that I’d ever consider them as competition is hilarious,” Branch says, words dripping in sarcasm, and Poppy is kissing him before he can utter another sound. Luckily he is content to swallow his words, preferring Poppy’s presence upon his mouth, pressing into her with a practiced fervor. When she breaks from his lips, creates just enough distance so as to look at his features in full, she smiles, soft and affectionate, and finds that he is smiling back.

Oh! Whatever it is Branch wishes her to call him, a steadfast friend or paramour, there’s no mistake: she loves him, madly.

“You’re right,” she says, at an almost whisper, “there’s no competition at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy, kudo, comment, or leave me small offerings of bread and cheese until the next drabble is installed. Also, you're welcome to suggest ideas for what you'd like to see in this collection!
> 
> It's important to note that as of this month I have returned to university, so understand that updates may take some time. ❤️


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, another installment! Who saw this coming?
> 
> This chapter is rated MATURE (for, well, sex stuff).
> 
> Enjoy!

Autumn arrives upon Troll Village like an unannounced guest, taking many by surprise but nonetheless received with earnest welcome. The air, dispelled of summer’s humidity, is replaced with an earthy crispness. The leaves begin to turn colors of rust and gold, curling and shriveling in beautiful decay before detaching from the branches above to blanket the ground below. There’s a spark of life that brings with it new harvest, the likes of cranberry and pumpkin and apple, ripening until worthy of selection, beckoning the forest's wildlife to come and partake for their foraging .

Sadly, if one creature were to procrastinate, his neighbors would lay claim to most of the selection, leaving little behind to share. So every year he must make use of his time wisely, lest he endure winter with a painful, empty stomach.

Like the rest of them, it’s a toil to which Branch deems routine.

Yet, this autumn morning is unlike the others that came with the years before before it. He shares his bunker, bed, and warmth with Poppy—albeit not for the first time.

Their sexual appetites matched up quite well, they had discovered, much like the trust between them, making it the perfect arrangement for two young adult Trolls with libidos in dire need of an outlet. Their trysts came frequently yet sporadically, unpredictable but anticipated, all at once and ravenous each time. And they find themselves again and again, two friends unable to get enough of each other.

But it’s definitely different for Branch this time, apparent shortly after the break of dawn. He’s prepared to rise and meet the day early, away from his bunker as well as away from the other Troll, praying that she’s sleeping soundly after how exhausted she’d been at the tail end of last night. Too soon, he learns that she’s a light sleeper, and that she has other, more erotic, plans.

In the back of his head, Branch reconsiders whether their libidos are evenly matched after all.

“Poppy, you don’t understand. If I don’t gather food today, there will hardly be anything left by this time tomorrow.”

“I know you’ve been doing this whole survivalist thing for a long time now,” Poppy purrs, her hand slipping underneath the sheet until it finds Branch’s thigh, and she bites her bottom lip when his body stills in response. “But you don’t have to worry about foraging as much as you used to, Branch. You can always stop by the village for something to eat when you’re hungry. Plenty of Trolls farm and sell produce for the _whole community_ to share. That includes you.”

“That’s nice and all, Poppy, but—” Branch’s voice catches in his throat when Poppy’s touch progresses into a caress, her soft fingertips skating further inward and lightly brushing against the length between his legs. Something scorches under Branch’s skin, and he nearly forget how to swallow. “There’s still plenty to worry about.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Poppy says, with a lust laced giggle, obviously pleased with the level of influence she possesses over the other Troll. “What was it you were drawing up blueprints for two nights ago, again?”

Branch closes his eyes and tries to picture meticulously scrawled plans and not the eager fantasies of what else Poppy’s hand could be doing to him. He squirms, brow tensing but eyes opening to look at her, and he can’t tell if his body is moving into or away from Poppy’s advances anymore. His voice, too, seems to be at her mercy.

“Heavy wind, uh,” Branch falters, briefly and embarrassingly, “protection.”

There’s a wicked grin on Poppy’s face accompanied by a coquettish gleam in her eyes, and Branch has seen both enough times to know what direction she seeks to lead them.  Her hand begins to move with purpose then, as if curious to find out how quick a more sensible and iron-willed Troll might cave to desire.

“Ah, right, of course,” Poppy says, fully cradling the tip of him in her palm, and pulling forth a low moan from the male Troll’s mouth. “You know, all this anticipation of disaster isn’t doing you any favors, Branch. It’s left you _so_ tense.”

“Poppy, I’m serious,” Branch says, his tone nowhere near as imposing as he’d intended it to be. Somehow, he assembles enough strength to nudge Poppy’s hand away, at last. He hurries to roll towards the side of the bed, reaches down in search for his vest and shorts. “I really have to gather new harvest.”

“I’m serious too,” Poppy says, without hesitance. She clicks her tongue and sits up, the warm blanket cascading down to pool at her hips. She crosses her arms over her exposed chest, indignant. “There’s no good reason for you to keep foraging as much as you used to and then eating down here all by yourself. I mean, hello? We can always go and grab something to eat _together_ , you and me. Poppy and Branch.”

Branch scoffs between his thoughts, his back to Poppy while he tugs his patchworked shorts back onto his hips and pushes off the bed to stand. He turns around to face her. “Thanks, but no thanks. The last thing we need is more rumors about our relationship. They’re already getting out of hand."

“I kind of liked the one about you being some madman that’s holding me hostage through hypnosis,” Poppy rebuts and chuckles at the face he makes. “Come on, Branch. Those stories are far less depressing than you wandering around in the forest collecting acorns all day.”

It’s beautiful, Branch can’t help but marvel, how Poppy’s smile comes to life, irrepressible and bright, freckled glitter on her cheeks shimmering, and so much of him thrives on keeping that happiness kindled. Somehow, though, he maintains his hardened expression, standing like the poster-child of determination ignoring how his chest constricts in protest and begs to yield at the sight of her. She’s become the most difficult habit for Branch to break.

“Maybe to you,” Branch sighs, and inclines his head backwards. “But I find the whole process of gathering supplies to be cathartic. The sense of efficiency and security and—” he clears his throat, “all I’m saying is: you’d have a hard time finding something more satisfying than that.”

“Oh, I can think of a couple things,” Poppy tells him, provocatively, and drops her arms to leave her naked chest exposed with a shimmy of her shoulders.

“Poppy, do you ever get tired of flirting with me?” Branch asks, one corner of his mouth upturning into a playful smirk despite attempts at maintaining a sardonic expression.

“Hmm,” she hums, feigning contemplation, “no, not really. I’ll only get tired of flirting with you when you get tired of doing that thing to me that makes the ends of my hair curl.”

Branch thinks of the first time he and Poppy had been besieged by their hot yearning and surrendered to the song their hearts had begun singing inside the darkness of a Bergen’s dinner pot, duetting long before themselves had acted upon it. Branch had moved first albeit ever cautiously, and all the years he’d chosen solitude left him not well-versed in sex or romance or anything akin to it outside the poetry he’d written. But he welcomed Poppy all the same, into his bunker as well as the hearth of his heart, and allowed her closer than he’d ever known. And she had obliged, earnestly and zealously, and followed his quivering lead as what started out as a typical evening between friends progressed into something entirely new, warm and wet.

It had been Branch that initiated song that night, with verses that grew more dulcet than their last until his hands had found Poppy, claimed her gently at the waist, while his lips moved in to meet hers. What would have been a chorus instead had become moans and grunts and whimpers, the uttering of each other’s names between hitched breaths. That was the first time Branch had felt Poppy’s hair coil around his own with such consummate fervency, how it seemed to pulsate and tug with each push and pull he gave inside her warm thrumming body. Eventually the peak of her hair had curled inward, tightly and with a paroxysm, followed by his name tumbling out Poppy’s mouth and her forehead pressed into his shoulder.

Oh, how Branch knows that sensation well, so familiar now after countless times. And it takes a minute to properly compose himself.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he gulps, mostly because he can’t think of anything else, and hurriedly goes back to looking for his vest before the naked pink Troll giggling in his bed completely shatters his resolve. “You can stay here until I get back if you want, but that won’t be for a couple hours.”

“ _Hours?_ ” Poppy bellows, her jaw dropping theatrically. Subtlety had never acquainted well with her. “What’re you going to do, go through the entire forest with the world’s smallest fine-toothed comb? Come on, Branch, just stay here with me!”

Amid Poppy’s histrionics, Branch is reminded why he prefers to keep their relationship on a friends-only level. Because he can’t be everything Poppy wants him to be, or at least he’s so concluded. In secret he’d attempted to suppress or erase some of his most maddening aspects, from giving tireless sermons on safety precautions to the way he’d often still submit to the occasional clamp of anxiety which rendered him unable to leave his bunker for days. And while he’d made improvements, there was seemingly no cure for simply being Branch.  No – this way, as friends and not lovers, it’s easier. He can avoid disappointing Poppy any further.

“If you want something done well, you have to put actual time into it.” He crouches to look under the bed and retrieves Poppy’s dress. He tosses it towards her. “As queen, you should know that better than anyone.”

“Of course I do,” she says, catching the garment before averting her eyes, “but that’s with actual important stuff. And scrapbooking. Oh, and planning slumber parties and—”

“This _is_ “actual important stuff”,” he cuts her off, stands upright and looks at her firmly, steeling himself. “Why can’t you just understand that?”

“Why can’t _you_ just understand what I said about you not having to to worry about foraging anymore?” Poppy is visibly frustrated now, putting her dress back on with one huffed tug. She furrows her brow, juts her bottom lip slightly outward, and glares at the Troll she was trying to seduce mere minutes ago. “Things are different now, Branch, and not just for the Troll Village. For me. For you.”

“Just because _this_ has changed,” Branch growls and throws both hands up, frantically motioning all about himself—his saturated hair, his restored color…—and drops his gaze, softening, “doesn’t mean everything about me has changed. Or will ever change. So I’d appreciate it if you spared me the disappointment.”

It’s quiet then, for a bit, before Poppy slides to the bed’s edge where Branch still stands, reaches for his hand. He lets her take it, watches as she flutters it to her lips and places a most delicate kiss atop his knuckles. Turning over his hand, she peppers more kisses along his palm, wordlessly. Gently, she brings it up to cup her cheek when she’s finished, but doesn’t remove her hand from his.

Amidst Poppy’s affections, Branch is reminded why he can’t be without her.

“I don’t want that to happen,” she says, at last, and Branch hears the emotional strain in her voice. “I’d never want everything about you to change, Branch. It’s just…I get a little ahead of myself sometimes, because you’re happy now, and so I want you to be a part of everything you’ve missed out on.”

“Poppy…” he says, attempts to soothe her, gives her cheek a light caress with his thumb.

“And I want you to spend more time with me,” Poppy confesses, selfishly.

Her whispered desire is nowhere near a secret to either of them, but Poppy’s cheek grows warm against Branch’s hand regardless, and something catches in his throat. At times like this, when the more romantic feelings they possess belly their way to the surface, everything seems to still.

And it’s alarming how quickly Poppy is able disarm Branch’s heart, break down the defenses he has so carefully built, often make him forget his anger as soon as it’s released. But he doesn’t mind, not in the least. All Branch wants, and needs, is to see Poppy smile, to keep that happiness kindled. He remembers then of a distant memory, when shades of pink drained to hues of gray, and from the experience knows Poppy’s loss of happiness is the one calamity that would hit him harder than anything. The one from which he’d never recover.

It’s unlikely to happen again, he realizes, but the memory forever lingers within him, a thin film of residual concern spread across his skin that flares whenever he finds her low-spirited.

“We already spend a lot of time together.” Branch smirks, playful adoration hanging in his eyes. “I can hardly get rid of you half the time.”

“Excuse me? Who was it that invited me over last night? Here’s a hint, mister: you.”

Poppy scrunches her nose up at him, gingerly clamps her teeth down on one of his fingers when he begins to laugh. She laughs too then, her belly filling with mirth. And it’s only when Poppy leans in and nudges his lips with her own that Branch stops worrying, opens his mouth and simply savors her. Every sultry puff of her breath, the slick heat of her tongue, the absentminded way her hands rove up his torso and into the sensitivity of his hair.

When Branch pulls away, his mind is adrift between dream and reality.

“Half an hour,” he mumbles, smiles at the way he catches her attention. “I’ll get as much foraging done as I can in thirty minutes and then I’ll come back to the bunker, okay? Or you can come with me.”

“No, no,” Poppy shakes her head, smiling. Her hands are nimble, gentle, when she pets through the depths of Branch’s hair. “I know how much you enjoy going out and doing this stuff by yourself. I’ll wait here for you to come back.”

“Maybe I can help you bake something with some of the harvest I bring back.”

Branch steps away from Poppy now, to look at her proper. Her ears perk up at his movements, hands lowering to rest at her lap, a flash of glee across her face in response to his proposal.

“By the way,” she says, tittering to herself, and collects her hair in one hand while the other straps it down with a ponytail, “your vest is in the other room. I took it off you last night when we were making out at your desk.”

Branch nods awkwardly – crap, he’d nearly forgotten his search for it. And as much as he’d like for it not to be true, he suspects Poppy takes humor in knowing this.

The pink Troll looks up from under her soft sideswipe of bangs. Her eyes twinkle.

Branch only chuckles, and shakes his head before turning to leave. He waves over his shoulder when Poppy singsongs a farewell, an “I’ll miss you” of sorts, and smiles broadly once he knows he’s out of her sight.

He plans to forage as much as he did the years before this one, but he’s confident the warmth spreading from his chest towards his every extremity will be enough to keep him warm for many winters to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh, I typed this installment up in a few hours so I hope it's comprehensible! I feel like it's all over the place with characterization; but I suppose being in a fwb relationship would be a bit like a roller coaster, right? Right?
> 
> Please enjoy, kudo, comment, or leave me small offerings of bread and cheese until the next drabble is installed. Also, you're welcome to suggest ideas for what you'd like to see in this collection!


End file.
